“He won’t hurt,” Becky told them. “Honest, he won’t. He’s really gentle.”

But one of the mothers turned on her. “You keep him away!” she shouted. “You keep him under control, or I’ll call the police.”

“It should be on a lead anyway,” said another of the mothers. “Should have a muzzle.”

“He doesn’t need a lead,” Becky told them. “And he doesn’t need a muzzle either. He was just having a bit of fun, that’s all.”

Then there were half a dozen angry mothers on their feet, yelling at her and Brighteyes, who stood there looking perplexed and upset. He turned and ran back to Becky. They left the park with abuse ringing in their ears.

It came on to rain later. So they went and sat in a bus shelter for a while, and that’s where they finished the last of their food. Becky counted her money once again, hoping it was more than she knew it was, that somehow she’d made a mistake. She hadn’t. It was still £1.56p. When a police car came by, slowing as it passed them, Becky kept her face hidden, pretending to be petting Brighteyes. They’d be on the lookout for her – she was sure of it. They’d have some kind of description of her by now: fifteen-year-old girl, green coat, jeans, woolly hat, with a light fawn greyhound with a tartan jacket. She might be able to hide her face but she couldn’t hide Brighteyes. She thought the police car would be bound to stop, but it didn’t. It was enough of a scare though to move Becky on, rain or no rain. The police car would be back to have another look any time, she was sure of it.

It took her a while to find the street again – she’d forgotten the name of it – and the house with the boarded-up windows and the skip outside. She’d decided that their garden shed home was the safest place to be for the moment, and the driest too.

One look from the end of the street, though, and her heart sank. The builders were there, two or three of them at least, carrying wood and bricks into the house. There was worse to come. As they walked by on the opposite pavement she saw that the skip looked much fuller than before. It took a moment or two for her to recognise what was in it – their garden shed, or what was left of it. She caught a glimpse of their blanket in amongst the wreckage of the shed. She was tempted to dart across the road to retrieve it, but the builders were constantly coming and going, and she didn’t dare.

How far she wandered after that and where she went, Becky had no idea. She was lost now in a daze of misery and cold. At one point she went into a café and spent the last of her money on a mug of hot tea and a sticky bun. She gave half the sticky bun to Brighteyes who sat by her knee shivering and shaking uncontrollably. Becky made her tea last as long as she could. With nowhere else to go, staying in the warm was everything, and Becky knew that.